


the world fits within his jaws

by gaspille



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Gross descriptions, M/M, Mind Break, miles is not a nice man!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-25 21:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18582985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaspille/pseuds/gaspille
Summary: Miles looks at the ceiling. It’s easier to imagine the Walrider as coming from above instead of inside him, like God. “I still have to hurt him. He has to pay for what they did to me.”The Walrider’s agreement is a soft heat underneath the skin, his limbs loosening as it trickles through him, his cock stiffening in his pants.Oh,he thinks,yeah, that’ll work.





	the world fits within his jaws

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will stop [titling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M1iK0aERTI8) fics from swans/angels of light songs but it won't be today!

Air whistles through the holes in Miles’ lungs as he gasps back alive; the Walrider buzzing through his synapses. Soothing him from the inside, even as it rips Wernicke from his wheelchair and breaks him open against the ceiling. 

There is no bright light to be found on the other side of the veil; no earth-shattering resolution, either. All that remains to Miles now is anger; his innards awash in a harsh, rusty glow that sears his blood; reminding him he’s not a corpse, not yet. 

*

“I’m so sorry.”

Waylon’s face is pale against the grimy shower floor, reddening as Miles kneels over him, the bloodied stumps of his missing fingers pressing against his windpipe. “Miles, I didn’t know… the lateral ascent? It wasn’t supposed to happen. They put me in the engine.”

It wasn’t hard to track the whistleblower down. He’d made quite the name for himself during his short time at Mount Massive; the name _Waylon Park_ scrawled in bold text throughout Murkoff’s internal database. Miles is lucky to have found him before they did, although he doubts luck had much to do with it, now that the Walrider is in play. Turns out it’s as good as hunting its prey down to cheap motels in the middle of nowhere as it was in the asylum. 

“That’s all?” There’s a low drone layered underneath his voice; the Walrider adding something he can’t quite make out. “I’m fucking dead, if you hadn’t noticed.” 

Dead is not quite the right diagnosis, yeah, but it’s easier to understand himself that way; a reanimated corpse, strung together and bloated with barbaric technology. Waylon appears to be having more trouble with the concept, though; his mouth opening and closing as he processes the words. 

“No, you’re not…” He swallows, squirming in Miles’ grip. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they did to you, but please. My kids, Murkoff’s gonna kill them if I don’t—“

“Don’t give a fuck about your family,” says Miles, rolling the syllables through his teeth. “But I’m pretty fucking sure they’ll be better off without you.” 

He wills the Walrider to act; to slide out and engulf Waylon like it did to Wernicke’s men. To crack through the meat and bones of his chest until it reaches the heart and shred it apart. _Kill him,_ he tells it, and the Walrider fills his skull with a laughter so distorted it makes his ears ache. It melts down to a sludge inside him, and Miles turns corpse-stiff; knees locking together, fingers prying themselves away from Waylon’s throat. Waylon stares wide-eyed at him, looking as confused as Miles feels, but the Walrider offers no explanation. It has a plan for Waylon Park, that much is clear, but death is not it.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” There’s resignation in Miles’ voice, undercutting the anger. Two different consciousnesses exist inside him now; two different forces of will - a condition of his resurrection. If pushed, one would consume the other, and it’s not hard to guess which of them would come out on top.

Searching for compromise, Miles derives a new form of punishment for Waylon in his head. With thoughts of broken bones and gouged-out eyes he reaches for him, but the Walrider flares white-hot in his bloodstream all the same. The warning is clear: _intact, or else._

Miles looks at the ceiling. It’s easier to imagine the Walrider as coming from above instead of inside him, like God. “I still have to hurt him. He has to pay for what they did to me.”

The Walrider’s agreement is a soft heat underneath the skin, his limbs loosening as it trickles through him, his cock stiffening in his pants.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, _yeah, that’ll work._

Waylon turns to stone in his arms, his hands scrambling to grip the bug-eaten shower curtain as Miles hauls him out of the bathroom, bottles of shampoo exploding against the tiles beneath their feet. It’s pointless - Miles is imbued with inhuman strength; divine or demonic in source, it doesn’t matter. Not even that mad bastard Trager could stop him now.

A dead language rushes through his head as he drags Waylon into the bedroom, the sky glowing an apocalyptic orange through the thin motel curtains. He throws him face-down on the bed and collapses on top of him, grinding his knee into his spine. Waylon’s screams muffle into the mattress. 

Thick, vaporous tendrils crawl out from beneath his shirt, cool to the touch. They slither around Waylon’s joints, dragging bright red lines across exposed skin as they solidify, and he thrashes like a fish on dry earth. The Walrider pins him spread-eagle over the mattress, pushing out even more tendrils to tear at his clothes. Miles sits back and lets it work, taking in Waylon’s body; the muscles of his back contorting into thick lumps, the gauze splitting around his right thigh. He isn’t sure whether to happy someone’s gotten to him first, or disappointed.

It’s simple muscle memory that has him taking off his own clothes, like he would’ve in his old life; if this was just another quick, anonymous fuck. Waylon chokes in breath, his head twisted to the side. His eyes strain in the corner of their sockets to stare at him. Miles follows his gaze downwards, and the shock nearly kills him a second time.

A pulsating smog spills from the holes in his chest, crackling black with life. Underneath, necrotic skin bulges in clumps out of his thighs and stomach; his body stuffed full with the Walrider. Although he’s long since lost all sense of smell, Miles knows what he reeks of - a mix of open grave and sepsis, the same stench permeating Mount Massive. 

To distract himself, Miles focuses on his cock, flushed dark purple against his stomach. He wraps a hand around it and pumps his fist, jumping at the touch. He didn’t understand just how dead his body had felt until now; his senses resurrected by the all-too human urge to hold something down and fuck it, amplified by the Walrider’s own excitement. It stirs inside him, working him up to a magnitude that would’ve terrified the old him; made him feel at home amongst the variants. Well, not anymore. 

He grabs Waylon by the hips and pulls him onto his knees. The Walrider surges out through the holes in his hands; replacing his missing fingers with coils of ectoplasm that pull and prod their way inside Waylon. 

“Oh, fuck, don’t.” Waylon’s voice breaks. “Not this,” he says, but there’s no pleading with a god, and he should know that by now.

The Walrider communicates in gasps of raw desire, frying wholeheartedly through Miles’ synapses until it’s hard to tell where it starts and he ends. It’s only when he grows impatient, pushing Waylon into the mattress with one hand and fisting his cock with the other, that he’s certain the urge belongs to him. Waylon Park must be crucified for what what he’s done. 

Cold slime envelops Miles’ cock as he shoves into Waylon, his insides gooey; making it obscenely easy to bottom out. Despite the Walrider’s preparation, Waylon yelps and clenches like Miles is taking him raw. 

“Shut the fuck up. You think this is bad, seriously? It’s the least you fucking deserve.” Miles illustrates his point by snapping his hips, sliding into him with enough momentum to hurt.

“Miles, this isn’t you,” Waylon says, as if he’d know, as if he has any fucking idea of who Miles was before he sent him to his death. “You need to get it out of you while you still can, or we’re all dead. Miles, don’t let them win—“

The words die in his throat. The Walrider crams a thick tendril into his open mouth and nostrils and he retches; slime-smeared lips stretching into a tight O. A bulge forms and reforms against the back of his neck and Miles shudders, as if it’s his own cock sliding across Waylon’s tongue and into his throat.

Waylon breathes in short bursts; cross-eyed and unblinking as Miles increases his pace to match the Walrider’s. It slips further into Waylon’s nasal cavity, his eyes flickering black as it reaches his brain and Miles is somehow _inside_ and crawling through his consciousness. Even in his own head, Waylon is mostly mute, his thoughts a string of anxious images: strange patterns on the backs of his eyelids, a flaming coffin, a bloody hole where his cock should be. Whatever the fuck deeper meaning that has, Miles can’t find it in him to care.

Hissing, the Walrider pushes itself fully down Waylon’s throat. The tendril dissolves into goo inside his belly; dripping into the pit of his groin and christ, Miles can feel him from the inside out, their bodies becoming one through the sheer will of the Walrider.

It’s strange, yeah, the burning sensation of being split apart on his own phantom cock, like the Walrider is taking him from behind while he fucks Waylon. Strange, but not unpleasant. 

“Seriously?” For the first time since he died, Miles smiles, and Waylon skin tinges intestine-pink. A tendril worms its way beneath his stomach, coiling around his cock. He turns pale, the blood compounding in his groin as he twists away from the pressure and Miles nearly passes out it feels so fucking unnatural, so good.

Tendrils hatch like larvae from his chest, rubbing themselves over Waylon, pinching and twisting the skin of his thighs and Miles can feel how painfully hard he is; the liquid heat spreading across his belly.

“Shit,” Miles hisses, arching his back as Waylon’s need seeps inside him, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Waylon reaches orgasm with a sob, squirming and raw on Miles’ cock. Miles sees heaven; bursting hot inside him, but the sensation is fleeting, numbed, pressing into him through layers of gauze. He tries desperately to hurt Waylon as he fucks him through it, slamming his fist into his back as hard as he can. Waylon’s pain mixes with his arousal, burning a hole through his guts; leaving him half over-stimulated, half begging for release, the Walrider crowing triumphant in his ear. 

_Please,_ he begs inwardly, _oh christ, please make me come, just one more time,_ but there’s only static buzzing in his head and Miles hates it; would rip its heart out too if he could. 

“Stop.” Waylon stares into empty space, pleading with the Walrider now - apparently too stupid to realise it won’t listen. “Please, please, just kill me. Make me dead. I don’t want this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Miles tells him, shoving his face into the comforter with all intention of keeping him there until he stops moving. The Walrider intercepts him, taking hold of both their bodies and rearranging them like dolls until Miles is flat on his back. Waylon settles on his stomach, kept upright only by the Walrider. His arms are strung above his lolling head, as if in surrender and he’s hard again - his cock haloed by a line of dark stitches. A few split open as Miles grasps his hips, the blood mixing pink with the come plastered on his stomach, and Miles wants to fuck him until his body simply breaks apart - his or Waylon’s, it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s over. 

He grinds into Waylon over and over, a twin chill blossoming in the bases of their spines, wracking through their vertebrae. The Walrider leaks itself out over his stomach, a thin layer of slime pooling at the base of his cock. It slides out over the length until it’s smothering it completely, then thickens. Miles and Waylon groan in sync, and Waylon blinks back into consciousness as he’s stretched open, eyes wide like he’s seeing Miles for the first time.

“You know, I killed the last one who tried to do this to me.” Waylon shakes, a wet, miserable laugh crawling out of his throat. “Do you ever wish you’d died in there?”

“I did,” snaps Miles, and Waylon shrugs as best he can.

“Died like the rest of them did, I mean,” he laughs; fucked out of his tiny mind. Miles imagines him with the Walrider roped around his neck, and is surprised when it brings the image to life. Waylon grimaces as the Walrider strangles him, blood vessels bursting across his darkening face. His tongue lolls from his mouth, lapping at the empty air like a dog, and the image is ridiculously pornographic that it unclogs the haze from Miles’ brain, his orgasm becoming imminent reality; heaven sent. 

Bliss overtakes him, and somehow he finds the energy to cut himself loose, nails slicing into Waylon’s ass as he rocks inside him. Waylon must feel it too because his legs begin to move independently from the rest of his strangled body, his eyes glassy, face an angry purple. 

Miles’ orgasm is only just stronger than Waylon’s second, and both engulf him like tidal waves, mythical in their intensity. The Walrider bursts into molten glue inside him, nailing him to the bed; his hearing cutting out. Divine sunlight beats down on him, the bullet holes sealing themselves from the inside out, his mother’s voice cooing in his ear. He thinks he might be crying, but he can’t feel his face. 

*

In the bathroom, Waylon is kneeling before the toilet; his finger crammed down his throat as grey ectoplasm streaks down his thighs.

“Don’t go anywhere, or I’ll break your fucking legs.” Miles closes his eyes and sinks back into the mattress. He lets the sound of Waylon retching and heaving lull him into a half-sleep, the comforter slick and rough against his back. He rubs a hand over his chest, and the Walrider hums through the holes. 

When he opens his eyes, Waylon is doubled over, his head resting against the rim of the toilet bowl, mouth smudged with sick. He stares at something over Miles’ shoulder, something a million miles away, and he smiles, as if greeting someone off in the distance. His eyes soften, as if it’s someone who will help.


End file.
